


Morning Report

by theartfulroger



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theartfulroger/pseuds/theartfulroger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo is used to making mistakes, for Platt it is an entirely new experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Report

“This is ridiculous,” Platt said. “It’s not right. You’ve slept with my sister. It just doesn’t feel right.” Theo continued to stare at the plaster of the ceiling, looking at anything in the room except Platt. He’d never noticed the particular stains on the lampshade on the lamp that sat upon Platt’s bedside table, or the stained, glossy wood of said bedside table. He had drawn his sheet over his chest like movie actresses often did so the director could avoid an X rating.

Platt continued, as though he felt the situation needed more unnecessary small talk. “Still, I’ve never done this before. Have you? I got the sense that you had, but I don’t think my gauge of this sort of thing is very accurate.”

“Once,” Theo said, maintaining a blank expression with expert ease he had picked up from countless conversations with his father and Xandra. How are you, Theo? Fine. How was school? Alright. Do you want Chinese or Mexican? Yes. “Or twice. I can’t remember. I was very young.”

“How young is very young?”

“I don’t know,” Theo said, almost automatically, although he certainly did know. “It was different than it was just then.”

“Of course it was. You were, as you said, very young.”

“No. It wasn’t that. It was just different, that’s all.” Theo finally turned to look at Platt. He was still hollow-eyed and looked like he might have once been a prep school prince, but was now resigned to guarding the moat of his East Side family’s castle. His hair was greasy with the remains of hair gel he hadn’t washed out, and although he was clean-shaven his face had a permanent sort of shadow to it. Platt turned away from Theo to yawn, as though _that_ was an embarrassing thing for him to see after they had, well…gotten to know each other better than Theo had expected.

“I don’t know how this happened,” Platt said, again.

“The bed squeaked,” Theo said, practically to himself, trying to recall how exactly it _had_ happened. “It was distracting. I kept thinking that it should have been built sturdier than that. And that I could have fixed it, if we were doing something else.”

“Well, I can’t help you there,” Platt sat up. “I’ve got to go to work.”

“Don’t.”

He whipped around to give Theo a stare that was trying to be angry and looking more tired. “What do you want from me? Are you dissatisfied with Kitsey? Is that it? Of course that’s it—otherwise you wouldn’t be here, I can’t see you married in a thousand years so I don’t know what it is you’re doing with her anyways, but what do you want out of me?”

The stucco of the ceiling was peeling in one spot. Mrs. Barbour had neglected to notice or neglected to fix it. That stucco was damned ugly, a bourgeouis house trying to pick up on the qualities of underprivileged houses that upper class designers had made hip. “Does it really matter?” Theo said, not really asking. “I don’t think it does.”

“I don’t think you understand what something mattering really means. If it matters it just means you care about it. You’re saying you don’t care about me, about whatever it was we did. Does Kitsey matter to you, Theo? Does anything matter to you?”

“Andy would make a joke,” Theo said. “Everything is matter. Hah.”

“Don’t do that. Not now.” Platt shook the blanket off of himself. He had strong, smooth legs, lacrosse player’s legs. Lacrosse as a sport was very sexy, Theo thought. It wasn’t the rough, hairy masculinity of football, it was sleeker than that. Hard and sleek.

“I don’t want anything out of you,” Theo said. “Did that occur to you? I don’t want anything out of you except what you want to give.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You’re probably on your happy pills again or something. I’m going to work, Theo.” He rolled off the bed and pushed his closet door open haphazardly. Theo allowed his arm to loll off the side of the bed. Below them cars were honking. Platt had those papier mache-looking slit blinds that you saw so often in hotels on his window, and they cast little stripes of light onto his white sheets.

“Platt.”

“What?”

Theo couldn’t think of a response. He couldn’t help having the thought that he had turned into Boris, once having been the classy prudish one being poked and prodded and now the lazily smiling cryptic poker and prodder. The thought made him strangely depressed.

“I’m going to work,” Platt said. It was the third time.

“I’ve heard,” Theo said, sitting up himself and feeling his back crack. “Shall we alert the media?”

“Go home, Theo.” Platt had put on a sweater vest and tie, an outfit that seemed almost made for him. He couldn’t ever imagine Platt in a t-shirt or even a sweater without the business attire underneath it.

“What train do you take to work?”

“6. I work in Brooklyn. Why?”

“Come out to Queens with me, Platt. Come out to the Rockaways. Walk down and across fifty-ninth and we’ll take the A. We can look at the little houses and walk by the beach. I don’t know. Come out and do something with me. I’m lonely, Platt.” Platt turned again to look at Theo while he put on his pants; Theo didn’t know how someone could make getting dressed look serious and precise but Platt did.

“Again, what do you want from me? Do you want to cheat on my sister? Do you want me to be—god forgive me, this will sound juvenile—your little boyfriend?”

“Not quite such a little boyfriend. A six-foot-three boyfriend.”

“I don’t understand you,” Platt said.

“Come on, Platt. Or we can go out to Queens Village and walk until we’re in Long Island.”

“Alright. Fine. We’ll go get Italian up on Arthur Avenue. Take the 6 from here and transfer to the D. It will take less than two hours and I’ll say the train was slow when I get to work. Then you’re going to go home.”

Theo stretched as he stood up, and found he couldn’t remember where he had left his clothes. “I knew you’d come around,” he said. He knew that, at some point, he would remember all the things he had on his mind. But at least, he thought, at least he had forgotten them without the use of unidentified pills this time.

**Author's Note:**

> I. Uh. Don't really know how this happened. It was just in my head and I had to get it out, so here it is.


End file.
